


Forgotten Shadows

by liitany



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Backstory, Fix-It, Gen, Pre-Canon, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-03 09:47:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16323920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liitany/pseuds/liitany
Summary: A speculation/imagination of Uta's origin.





	1. Past

_Facilis descensus averno._

That was lectured upon him by the very foreign family that had taken in him, by the very family who considered themselves saved him from death and the cold, cruel world. He was to believe in it, consult it, adhere it on mission, on duty, or even off duty. Even if he was off duty, he was taught, he was still expected to follow any commands, assist any missions, and serve in the name of the angels.

Even though he is never one of the angels.

They are half-angels and claims themselves to be the warriors who hunt in shadows. They are guardians of the humanity — those beneath his place in the food chain — and against the demons and other demon-related species — like him. They taught him he is like them too. Blood would roar in his veins; angelic weapons would respond to his call on battlefields. The leather cloth used to tuck snugly his infant self is their only evidence.

When they took him in, all they saw is just a pale, vulnerable infant, dumped and asleep in a heap of trash. It is a Shadowhunter’s responsibility to accept another of their kind, so he was to be grateful to be raised surrounded by unfamiliar faces. As a kid, he was baffled by the obligation; as a youth, he felt a rebellious repulsion toward it. He was a soldier, just like them. He sparred with the descendants as if preparing for war. Though the parents valued the step-siblings’ wellbeing more, they still fought with swords, tirelessly, expectedly. The parents were just regularly overseas, visited so irregularly his welcome during their returns felt more like a courtesy rather than love. The family was rarely family, just another reason for him to be comandeered, weaponized, expected.

“Passing down the legacy rarely feels like stepping on a throne,” he had remarked to his step-brother on a balcony, “but rather like … promotion.”

The brother simply shrugged. “This is our mission, our duty.”

How tragic of the Clave. How tragic of the children. How tragic of his upbringing. The Clave is wrong. The world is wrong.

True that he proved to be worthy of them. He sparred, he fought, he fistfighted, he combated with sticks. Any moves against demons and Downworlders, he had mastered them with ease. Everyone was proud of his physical excellence, with a few jealousy. But none realized his secret. He was one of the other species, monitored by a human government, the CCG. Six months in and he had noticed the inherent hunger and how sharp the Nephilim scent would penetrate his head and nostrils. They were delicious, but a part of him felt ashamed, because this was his family and he should be grateful; but he shoved away that loguc easier than his stepfamily. Hunger for human flesh easily leads to hunger for Nephilimic ones. But if the Clave found out, he would be treated like a Downworlder — which is more discriminated than they claim — and sentenced to Gard. And the family name would turn fowl.

Fortunately, the parents were mostly absent. He sneaked out under the pretense to train, and he knew how to evade past the guards and out of the Institute. It was an irony, but he would target the Downworlders, but human food is always his natural craving. Their eyes, lacking the Sight; the hands, clumsy with no battles.

One silent night, while he drained the blood, something he never thought would return, resurfaced.

_Facilis descensus averno._

He never thought about it. He is half-ghoul, half-Shadowhunter. He was to be a warrior. But he was built to prey upon the very species he was to protect.

This limbo. This tragedy.

Raising his head, leaning back, staring at the black, moonless sky.

_Black for hunting through the night._

 


	2. Present

One silent night, he left the Institute as the mundane murders increase on the brink of suspicion. Venturing into the 4th ward, to maintain his life, he took the peacekeeping role with ease, since the strictness from the past training was imprinted into his subconsciousness in such a way he had no problem imposing it at all and shoving past the underlying sympathy and distracting emotions. Those being said, he never wanted anything to do with them again. He never agreed with the Laws. He can restrict and punish those ghouls, but to be organized like them in such an idealistic way distates him. To stray far away from them, he turned his kakugan permanent and covered every inch of runes on his skin with intricate, intensely inked tattoos, adding another quote round his neck to push the old motto away, to completely detach it from his renewed self.

The Law is hard, but it is the Law.

The Clave states so as they proceed with their cruelty with the same decisiveness the CCG proceeds with their slaying of ghouls.

The investigators are just as merciless, with fiery blood boiling in their veins, weapons responding to their call except in the form of flick of wrists or a press of a button.

It is tragic the Nephilim can’t see the foolishness in their actions, the mirror the CCG indirectly reflects upon them, and the recklessness that brings them closer to humans, the very species they believe they are above of. Resting on top of an infrastructure, accompanying with a bored Renji, Uta glances over the unremarkable, unlit patch of land with a crumbled building. Peeling away the glamour, it would be a cathedral just as lit as the rest of the city.

The descent into Hell is easy. The road to Avernus is smooth, but he never regrets the ride.


	3. Runes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those are not back tattoos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ft Clary Fray, who wants to take a break from Shadowhunting missions for a sec

Kaneki's legacy has ended. Without a main body, the Dragon has gained a mind of its own, secreting kagune monsters and wreaking a new type of havoc on the city. Other than that, everything is almost restored to their normalcies and mundaneness, and the Clowns refuse to let that bore their lives. Borrowing silence from one of the raving days, he retreats to his home above his shop, giving the shopkeeping duties to American Shadowhunter Clary Fray, who doesn't know him as he knows her, whose art skills are just as capable as that of her combat. She is a bit of a celebrity in the Shadow World, for having defeated her tyrant father and brother, and a greater demon, and later excelling more demon-hunting missions. However, she does not know him more than as a mysterious ghoul and a shop owner who can make her do whatever just because he says so, let alone his Nephilimic connection. 

He unlocks the door to his bedroom and sits on the bed.

His mind has abandoned any Shadowhunter beliefs and customs, away and gone; his body isn't. Years of training during childhood stick the longest, leaves the largest imprints. It was many years from now, but even though the memory is distant, it has been there: the icy fire alight on his skin as the runes burned. The stele's tip's stinging sensation upon his torso. The seraph blades' somewhat hurt burned into his palm, which was thankfully protected by the glove.

How he later became one of the monsters they fear, by feeding on humans at night but having to hide that identity by day. They are wrong. He is not a monster, but a reprobate.

That stele, gifted to every Shadowhunter including him,is hidden in ... somewhere he has forgotten.

He sniffs. And recalls that ancient scent which speaks of angels.

In that bottom drawer. He has never used that drawer for ages, always having been using the those on upper layers for storing food.

Going to the drawer — slightly faded with dust on its surface — kneeling down, opening it, it revealed itself also layered with dust (but fret not, microscopic, mundane stuffs like these don't impair these heavenly objects' functions). They have done so many wrongs, but their crafts are always as angelic and majestic as they claim to be. His stele is adorned with artificial vines ensnaring a small irregular prism, whose uneven surface would satisfy his hands as it guides his grip. Right now, its tip doesn't glow or twang as he picks it up, for he does not need to carve a rune. There are so many artistic wonders in it. He would want to sketch it and explore its lines, shades and shapes, but abiotic objects aren't his strongest taste. He puts the object back and slides the drawer shut.

He received it after being gifted his first rune, which is seared onto the slight left side of his chest, where he now covers with his sun tattoo. Many more runes have riddled down both of his arms — now preceded by intense ink — and sides of his neck — now replaced by clean skin after they were sliced off by a kagune of a ghoul he has sedated during peacekeeping days.

And then some are never erased.

No matter how much he rejected their beliefs, they will never completely go away.

The runes still burn in his back. He still remembers. An  _iratze_ on the upper right, a  _strength_ at the far left,  _agility_ ,  _calm anger_ ,  _swift_ , and many more useful for battles and adrenaline sprawling across his back. Going to his bathroom, under the pale yellow light, closing the door, he takes his shirt off with a pry on its hem, a hunch of his shoulders; on the dried-waterdrops-dotted mirror which right now faces his back, he could see them imprinted on his back, more permanent than his tattoos, blacker than their ink, more burning than the piercing pain under the tattoo gun.

At a repulsive identity, he does not inhale, exhale, stare penitently into the eyes of his reflection. Why do humans do that? Why do they grieve over a damage that has already been done?

* * *

A faraway, familiar scent getting closer, the scent he sometimes longs for.

Uta easily puts back on his shirt and not long after, the door opens, and seconds later, Renji's footsteps proceed into his bedroom.

"Uta? Hello? Are you okay?"

He opens his bathroom door and glances at the other male before focusing on the bedroom's doorway.

"I'm fine, just wanted to rest. I'm going back now."

"OK."

 


End file.
